


Reliquary

by Katsitting (Nekositting)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bible Quotes, Blasphemy, Catholic Guilt, Corruption, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masochism, Mind Manipulation, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Harry, Sacrilege, Sadism, This messes heavily with consent, Wet Dream, plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 00:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Katsitting
Summary: Tom chuckled into his ear, seemingly sensing Harry’s fruitless struggles, before Tom’s hand tugged at the locket against Harry’s chest lightly and spoke against the shell of Harry’s ear. “He has abandoned you, forsaken you…” The words were muddled, but Harry was not so far gone that he couldn’t understand the heavy implication in the man’s words.“From this day forth, you put your faith... in me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is another PWP. I honestly don't know why this keeps happening.
> 
> Although, in my defense, this one was an idea I have had for a long while. I had received a prompt request a while back and this story was the original idea. Since I knew it was going to be a longer one, I erred on the side of caution and filled the request with a whole other idea and decided to write this one as a stand alone. It has gotten quite long and so, I have broken it into a two-shot.
> 
> If you are religious, or feel particularly strongly about Catholicism. I don't recommend you read this. It is quite inflammatory and sacrilegious.
> 
> I will also highlight that I am not an expert on this religion. I have quoted Bible verses throughout the piece and I will not be marking when they'd been used because it will require more work. 
> 
> Read at your own risk, and do mind the tags!
> 
> Thank you nanimok and darklordtomarry for betating!

 

“Forgive me, Father for I have sinned,” Harry whispered, kneeling at the altar in the hopes that the heat emanating from between the pews could drown the chaos in his mind. 

“The acts of the flesh are obvious...” Harry closed his eyes and shrank further into himself,  his hair tickling the scar on his forehead as he prayed, his mind wandering down a dangerous path.

_ A touch against bare skin, fingers dancing along his spine as they trailed from the small of his back all the the way up to his neck... _

“Sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft.” 

Harry shuddered, recalling the way the boy’s lips twisted into a smile, sharp teeth catching on the sunlight bleeding into the white. 

_ And then white teeth flashed before his eyes, before digging down on quivering skin, blood welling right at the edges as he breathed... _

“Hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like.” 

Harry tried to dispel the image from the back of his mind, almost as if those teeth were savaging his throat right at the altar, but the fantasy lingered like blood on white linen. It refused to be cleansed.

_ Harry moaned, drowning when a finger dipped low on his back and trailed lower still, a firm finger pressing inside, before curling and... _

“I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God,” Harry choked out, before finally banishing the parasitic thought. 

“ Deliver me from my enemies, oh my God. Set me securely on high away from those who rise up against me…”

The words felt heavy on Harry’s tongue, the weight of them enough to crush him as he tried to erase the memories of the man that had sat at the row nearest to the altar, and banish the strange fantasies that lingered in his mind’s eye. But the man’s imaginary dark eyes followed him at every turn, taking in every movement despite how hard Harry tried to rein these strange emotions.

Harry clutched tighter onto the rosary, remembering how the man had traced the shape of him with his burning stare, the black so intense that Harry wondered if the man was trying to eat him whole through his gaze alone.

To consume him until there were no barriers between them, the lines lost to the meeting of their minds.

Harry shuddered despite the sheen of sweat on his brow, his body too hot in the empty room.

It was a sin to be stared at in such a fashion, for a man to come into the church and look upon Harry with those...strange emotions swirling in his eyes. 

But was it truly a sin to be looked at? Men and women of all sorts came into the church and had stared at Harry as he spoke, their eyes catching his own as he looked to them all patiently. What made this man so different? What made the sight of this man, once a teen that Harry and the church had cared for, such a threat?

The man had never done anything untoward. In fact, he was always perfectly courteous and kind when he’d attend mass to take the blood and flesh of Christ.

Everyone knew who the man was. A popular, rich young man that had lived a troubled life in the slums of London before he had come into his riches. An inheritance that no one in the church had been aware of. They had all assumed that the dirt-ridden teenager they had led inside all those years ago was an orphan; his parents long since dead and poor.

But that had not been the case. The mystery and the theatrics of the whole thing was enough to bring gossip inside even the church’s walls. Harry remembered those weeks vividly, listening but never participating in the gossip as they talked about the mysterious teen that had come into the church, and had disappeared just as quickly as he’d arrived.

His dirty clothes were the only thing left of him when Harry and Dumbledore had come to wake him for breakfast that sunny morning. So it was a miracle, indeed, a gift of God, that the young man had indeed survived all those years ago, growing into a man of prominence and wealth.

A man that easily left  the most silver-tongued at a loss for words.

Harry clasped tightly around his rosary, the clacking  of the beads echoing in the silent room, a sharp disturbance in the empty church.

_ Don’t think of him, Harry… _

Harry reined in his thoughts once more, focusing instead on the prayer he had begun. 

He needed to cleanse himself from the impure thoughts that had overtaken him. He needed to wash it all away and come away a brand new man.

_ But how am I to cut the head of the serpent when it keeps growing others? _ Harry thought, desperation making his lungs tight.

Harry would beg God for forgiveness for his weakness. Would drop to his knees and whip his back raw if it would cleanse him, if it could erase the memory of those sleepless nights where he was tempted to slip into his bed and take his flesh into his hand. Harry wanted to rub his skin until it was raw, to erase all memory of the man’s touch in the fantasies Harry’s own traitorous mind concocted.

Harry would do anything to free himself from this...lust. Anything and all that was required, he’d gladly do it. He couldn’t live like this. Not when he was a man of the cloth. Not when he was meant to be the champion of the light; to steer the masses away from the sultry calls of the devil.

Harry swallowed before renewing his chants, shoving aside the guilt and the shame burning deep in the pit of his stomach.

“ But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint—,” Harry said before he was abruptly stopped in the middle of his prayers by the sound of the church door opening several meters at his back.

_ Who could it be? Surely no churchgoer would be out this late in the evening…? _

Harry slowly rose from his kneeling position, his trembling fingers pocketing his rosary before turning to face the newcomer, curious and concerned.

Harry felt all the color drain from his face at seeing the very man he had strived to erase from his mind all evening. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The young man that had crept into Harry’s life and thoroughly shaken it from its foundation. Why was he even here at all? Were Harry’s thoughts enough to bring the man over? 

Harry’s nervousness swelled.

“Hello, Father Potter,” Tom said, stepping further into the room through the aisle at the center of the modest church.

This church wasn’t the most posh or opulent church in all of London; it was perhaps one of the smallest in the area. A simple chapel that let in the homeless and those that were in need of a guiding hand. 

It was a place Harry had purposely transferred to after spending years studying the scriptures in Rome. There was just something about being close to the people, something about extending a hand to those that were at their lowest and helping them up, that Harry just found satisfying. In Rome, the kindness, although genuine, was extended in much more different ways, but it simply did not allow him the opportunity to know the families that came in.

It was an intimate connection Harry wanted to form; a better way to truly bring God into their lives.

Especially when most of his visitors were not from rich and influential families, but homeless men, women, and children seeking advice and a warm meal after spending days out in the blistering cold. 

Though why Tom Riddle was standing right at the end of the aisle was a whole other matter. The man was finely dressed, his dark shirt and trousers blending into the shadows the light from the candles could not reach. His hair was as dark as his attire, the curls at the top of his head brushed to the side and styled into submission. It was a stark contrast to Harry’s own messy hair, but that was hardly a surprise. 

While Harry was wild and lively, Tom was the complete opposite. He was beautiful, yet his skin was remarkably pale. Like carved bone rather than the warm, golden hue of Harry’s skin. It was unnerving how inhuman Tom looked, but that was not the sole reason for Harry’s unease. It was merely one of many varying reasons.

For one, Tom was excruciatingly beautiful. Almost inhumanly so. His aristocratic, soft features were framed nicely by the curl that fell on his forehead despite how immaculately styled his hair always was and his pale skin gleamed beneath the orange glow of candles, the only semblance of color that bled into the man’s skin. And if that all were not enough to draw a shiver up Harry’s spine, the man’s eyes were an intense, bottomless pit of black.

The lids were framed by dark lashes that softened the intensity in the man’s eyes; the calculation and the coldness there not as frightening as it would be without it.

Harry wished he was blind to it all. The man’s beauty led him down too many dangerous paths to be normal.

“Hello, Tom. What can I do for you today? It is awfully late for anyone to be out in the streets,” Harry said, stepping away from the altar to meet the young man right at the center of the church. His footsteps echoed on the hollow floorboards, and Harry tried not to think too hard on the fact that they were both alone. The notion enough to make his stomach twist when his thoughts again began to fixate on the way the shadows danced along Tom’s cheeks...

Harry cut the thought off immediately, chastising himself for his failing.

It was not a thought a man of the cloth should have. These were not thoughts Harry should harbor for another  _ person.  _ It was a sin. He couldn’t allow himself to be tempted by the mere presence of this man.

Harry had to resist.

“...I have been restless, Father. I needed to come to church to sort through my thoughts. To put a name to the ills that have been plaguing me,” Tom said.  

Harry felt concern tug at his heart, his unease momentarily dispelled at the contrite look on Riddle’s face. Harry felt some of his anxiousness settle at the sight, the familiarity of routine taking hold in that instant. For all his reservations with Riddle, Harry could never turn his back on someone in need. It was why he was a clergyman.

Yes, Riddle did make his skin crawl with strange, inappropriate feelings, but that was on Harry; not on a man seeking guidance. That was no excuse for him to fail in his duties. Even if being under that particularly dark gaze made him feel too self-aware and small, Harry was under an obligation to help and he would see to it. 

God would be his strength and his guiding light. Harry just had to have faith.

“Would you like to talk about it, Tom?” Harry asked before he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, ignoring the way Tom’s heat seeped through the man’s shirt and scalded Harry’s fingers.

“Thank you, Father, but no. Being here, at your side, is more than enough.” 

Tom’s voice was soft, the cadence ringing in the church like a song. It echoed through the halls and Harry felt his back stiffen when Tom’s dark eyes flickered up to his own.

The black was endless. An abyss that reminded Harry of tales of demons preying on the faithless.

These were the eyes of the devil, but Harry knew that this man was not a demon. The devil could not walk into these walls, could not stand within view of the cross above the altar at his back. 

No, these were the eyes of a man that saw too much. The eyes of a boy that had lived the life of a peasant until God smiled upon him and blessed him with sudden luck.

_ But why did he look as if he were trying to eat me whole with his gaze?  _ A traitorous thought whispered in the back of Harry’s mind. He silenced it as quickly as it came.

No, Harry would not think this way of Tom. He could not let his reservations poison his mind; for his own failings as a man of God to besmirch the man’s name. Tom was  _ good man. _

If only Harry could convince himself of that. If only he could silence the whisper of dread and unease, of discomfort and anticipation that danced along his spine at just being in the man’s presence. These feelings were strong, but Harry could not let himself be swayed. He was a man of the cloth, he was here to help and to provide guidance to those that sought it. He would not fail. He could not fail his Lord and Savior.

Tom was seeking an understanding ear. Nothing more. That was all it would be. And for this, Harry would do everything within his power to do just that. Harry could not reject him. Though that did not stop his emotions from screaming at him.

_ He is just a regular man, Harry, get ahold of yourself. _

It was several seconds before Harry finally found the wherewithal to speak.

“...Of course, Tom. Do you mind if I return to my prayers? I usually reserve this time to speak to God,” Harry inquired, watching how Tom’s pleasant expression melted into one of curiosity. His black eyes were swirling with some unnamed emotion and Harry tried rigorously to not get caught in the tides.

Tom’s lips twisted into a small smile that made Harry uncomfortably hot in his priest garb. “Please go on, I love when you give your sermons during mass. You have a way with words, Father. They are compelling, and give life to the passages that you read,” Tom stated.

Harry felt flustered, and he quickly turned away, all too aware of how awkward he was being. But he couldn’t help himself. No one had ever complimented his sermons in such a fashion before. He was still young and inexperienced compared to Father Dumbledore and all the other more seasoned clergymen.

_ And it was Tom that complimented you... _ A voice hissed in the back of his mind, but Harry ignored it. He refused to give it even a centimeter of attention.

“T-thank you,” Harry stammered before heading back to the aisle just several meters away and kneeling back on the ground to renew his prayers. Harry could feel the man’s eyes at the back of his head, but he tried his best to ignore the sensation. 

And then it struck him, just as he was preparing to speak, that this was a test from God. It could not have been any more clear. God worked in mysterious ways, and this was surely another one of his Lord’s ways of leading him to success.

Harry removed his rosary from his pocket, and twined the beads between his fingers as he spoke. “I am laid low in the dust; preserve my life according to your word. I gave an account of my ways and you answered me; teach me your decrees.”  

His hands were hot and clammy, his brow wet with strain, but Harry ignored how his body reacted to the man’s presence.

This was supposed to be a moment between God and himself. Tom was simply watching and testing his resolve. 

If Harry could overcome this, he could overcome it all. If he could ignore the way his spine sang with excitement at being beneath those eyes, Harry knew that God would smile upon him. He could free himself from this strange desire--from this bizarre affair that had begun the moment the teen he had taken in those years ago had returned a brand new man, rich and beautiful. The complete antithesis of what Harry had seen.

“Cause me to understand the way of your precepts, that I may meditate on your wonderful deeds,” Harry whispered, eyes closing shut when he heard Tom’s footsteps in the chapel, the sound growing louder and louder the nearer the man came to where he kneeled.

Harry tried not to think of it.

“M-my soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.” 

Harry nearly stopped when he heard the footsteps stop behind his prostrate form, the shifting of clothes the only sound in the still room as Harry tried to control the trembling in his shoulders. He could feel the heat radiating from Tom’s body, his own spine tense as he forced himself to remain perfectly still.

_ Don’t think about it, Harry. Pretend he is not there. Think of the Lord. Remember His strength and the power in His mandates... _

“Keep me from deceitful ways; be gracious to me and teach me your la—” Harry gasped, swiveling around when he felt something trail from the base of his spine and up to the nape of his neck. It was cold, like ice. The touch so manifestly different from the warm air in the chapel that Harry could have sworn death itself had slid its fingers along each vertebrae.

But there was no one there. The chapel was barren, the door at the far end completely ajar.

Tom had left.

_ But when had the man left?  _

Harry shivered, his fingers clasping more tightly around the rosary with dread.

If Tom had left, then who had touched him?

* * *

 

“Are you alright, Father Potter? You have been looking unwell as of late.” 

Harry tensed, his shoulders raising up when he heard an all too familiar baritone speak too  closely behind him. He tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart, to still the shaking of his hands.

A fruitless endeavor, but one Harry attempted nevertheless.

It was several moments before Harry had gathered his bearings, satisfied that he no longer resembled a frightened lamb. Harry turned around to address Tom, his smile slipping into place when the man was grinning back at him, the expression making Riddle’s pale face brighten pleasantly.

Harry’s breath caught, shocked by its sincerity.

“Ah-er, yes, I’m fine. Just been a rough few days, but nothing for you to be concerned with,” Harry replied, wincing at just how awkward he sounded in that second. 

It was just as terrible, if not worse, than the time he had spilled juice all over his white robes right before he’d needed to deliver a sermon.

The disappointed stare of one of the clergymen had been enough to stain his cheeks red for the rest of the festivities. It hadn’t been a pleasant day, especially when one of the clergymen, Father Snape, kept glaring at him throughout the whole thing.

As if Harry’s presence offended him.

“Nightmares?” Tom inquired, and Harry grimaced despite himself, unable to hide his expression when the man’s suggestion came too close to the truth for comfort. His dreams were not  _ precisely  _ nightmares. It was something far worse. Nightmares, Harry could certainly handle. There was, at least, something he could do to cast aside the fear and nerves running up his brain.

But these dreams? Harry would rather take his chances nightmares than the other...more uncomfortable dreams he’d been having. Easily.

“Y-yes, nightmares. But I’ll be alright, really,” Harry insisted, wanting to change the topic as quickly as possible when Tom cocked a brow at him, curiosity and...something else glittering in his dark eyes.

Tom’s strange expression melted away into one of worry, his hand pushing into the pocket of his trousers to rummage for something Harry could not see. “If nightmares have been plaguing you, might I suggest something, Father?” 

There was the sound of jingling, metal clanging against metal, before Tom finally removed a golden chain. The metal glimmered faintly beneath the sunlight trickling into the chapel, the chain a stark contrast to the smooth skin of Tom’s hand. 

If Harry had to guess, the trinket had to be genuine gold. The way the sunlight caught the jewelry was similar to the expensive reliquaries the chapel kept locked away in the backroom. The items were only to be brought out on special occasions; a tradition incredibly different than the church back in Rome where the elegant regalia was worn almost all hours of the day.

It was absurd, really. 

And then the light caught green, the twinkle drawing Harry’s own emerald gaze, unable to resist the pull. The pendant looked tiny in the palm of Tom’s hand, but Harry could still make out the carved metal, its design deceptively simple.

It was a plain locket, old and worn, but still in perfectly good condition. There were gems embedded into the back, the emeralds arranged in an “S” that made Harry wonder just who this piece had once belonged to. The “S” could have stood for the name of its previous owner, or perhaps the initials of a loved one, his curiosity flaring to life as he surveyed the trinket.

Harry didn’t know how long he stared at it, but after moments of drawing blanks as to who this could have belonged to, Harry abandoned the fruitless endeavor and focused instead on the locket as a whole.

It looked priceless and incredibly fragile within Tom’s much strong hand, its matte sheen reminding Harry of the old antique shops he’d seen back in Rome, a myriad of necklaces and chains displayed for the passing pedestrian to see.

“This...is an heirloom that belonged to my family. It was said to bring good luck to its wearer. I thought you might have it, Father. Perhaps you’re in need of some luck,” Tom teased, and Harry felt his cheeks flush a bright red.

_ A gift? For me? _

Harry was at a loss for words.

“You don’t need to take it if you do not wish to. I understand that this is not something...you’re accustomed to, despite the nature of your work. I will take no offense if you refuse,” Riddle continued, and Harry finally composed himself enough to answer.

“N-no, it’s alright. I’ll accept it. I was just a little surprised that you’d give me something of such value to your family,” Harry quickly amended, watching the way Tom’s handsome lips twisted into a pleased grin. There was an emotion smoldering in the back of the man’s eyes, but Harry did not think too hard on it, choosing instead to take the locket from the man’s hand.

The brush of skin against skin made something jolt in Harry’s stomach. Harry ignored the way his fingers pulsed from where their hands had touched, and pulled the locket back towards him to look more closely at the heirloom.

Harry’s assessment had been correct, the pendant was definitely old and expensive. The metal made of solid gold gauging from how malleable the locket was. It could easily break apart if someone were careless with the trinket, and Harry cradled the cold metal in his hand, mindful of this fact.

“Do you like it?” Tom interrupted Harry’s examination and Harry jumped, forgetting completely that the man was still standing in front of him. The chapel having emptied hours earlier, leaving the two of them the last occupants in the room. 

“It’s beautiful, Tom. Thank you so much for the gift,” Harry said honestly. “I’ll be sure to take good care of it, and hopefully, the locket will definitely do as you promised. I’m holding you to that.”

Tom laughed, and Harry could not help but be drawn in by the sound. The timbre was like the sound of children singing in the choirs. It was melodic and crisp, a wholesome tenor that coaxed a laugh out of Harry’s own lips, unable to help himself because Tom’s humor was infectious.

“I am glad you like it, Father. Though, I will warn you. The good luck only works if you wear it. I am afraid I never got it to work with it shoved in my pocket,” Tom quipped, and Harry could not stop himself from smiling further at the good naturedness of the man. 

It was moments like these that Harry could forget his strange thoughts. A reminder, a testament, that Tom was in fact not a danger at all. Harry was simply projecting his own sins onto the man. And that could not have been any more apparent than in this moment.

“Will do,” Harry teased, his fingers curling around the cold metal as tightly as warmth simmered within his gut.

* * *

 

Harry writhed in his bed, his hands catching onto cotton sheets as he was assailed by a flurry of strange emotions. 

His skin felt like it was going to melt from right off his bones, his stomach twisting into knots as he drowned in the strange heat that ate away at all rational thought. All logic and reason abandoned, consumed and devoured by fire laving over sweat-slicked flesh.

The locket felt cold against his bare chest, the only source of relief from the flames as he kicked out and tried to regain some semblance of control over himself. But how could he control himself when what felt like a mouth kissed him right at his navel? 

The moist heat was enough to rip a startled cry from his lips, and Harry fisted more tightly on the sheets beneath his fingers, unable to do more than that as his body tensed from unseen touches stabbing deep into his skin.

“W-what is—” Harry arched his back, unable to finish the question when a mouth traveled lower down his stomach and pressed a kiss on his inner thigh, tongue lapping at his sweaty skin. The mouth then sucked the softness inside the hot cavern, teeth suddenly catching on his flesh, eliciting another whimper from Harry’s lips.

Harry felt like he would burst into flames. His toes curled from the sensation, no relief to be found. He was like a lit pyre with no means of being put out. The mouth shooting delicious jolts of pleasure up his spine each time he felt the sharp sting of teeth stabbing into his inner thigh.

_ What is happening to me? _

Harry gasped, his spine bending when the mouth began to kiss a burning path to his throbbing prick. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes from the sensation, the desire and lust eating at him making him thrust upwards to get more of that mouth.

_ Please someone stop this… _

But there was no one in the darkness with him.

Harry was alone in his bedroom, the moonlight from the open window at the opposite end of the bed providing him with enough light to see for himself that there indeed was no one there at all. There was no real mouth kissing his cock, no real teeth digging into delicate skin. He was by himself, and Harry did not know how to feel about this.

_ Lord, do not be far from me.... _

Harry cried out when the hot mouth kissed the rosy head of his prick, his moans so loud in the silent room that it was a miracle no one had come in to ask him if he was alright. He didn’t live alone, and it was certainly strange that there was not even the sound of a fist hitting his wall to shut him up.

It made him all too aware of the fact that he was alone; no one was there to save him. He truly was at the mercy of this invisible force; his faith the only barrier to the complete collapse of his restraint.

_ Do not give in to temptation... _

The mouth seared him straight through bone, the heat nestling between his ribs as the pressure shot sparks of adrenaline up his spine. 

Harry was cracking from the pressure, his mind befuddled as unseen lips rubbed and tasted at the sensitive skin. Teeth catching on the sensitive flesh of his head for a moment; the touch enough to make Harry’s blood rush to his ears and the world around him fading.

“P-please, stop. I am a man of G— _ ah! _ ” Harry moaned when the mouth engulfed his hard cock completely. It was hot and moist, the sensation driving him wild as his spine arched further; his arms and legs seemingly tied down by the invisible force as the figure began to lick from his glans and down to the base of his cock, the movement agonizingly slow. 

Harry felt his mind begin to break.

_ You are my strength… _

And then the mouth began to move, taking Harry’s cock deeper and deeper into its moist heat until there was nowhere else for Harry to move, until there was no sliver of skin where the mouth did not touch. Harry wasn’t even sure if that bliss was a mouth at all, but the semantics mattered little to Harry in that moment; not when the head of Harry’s cock bumped into something inside and the walls surrounding him contracted, throwing him head first into euphoric bliss.

_ Come quickly to help me… _

Harry tried to drown out the sensation through prayer, to invoke the scriptures to rescue him, but the pleasure was all-consuming; the heat had begun to unravel him, to unmake him completely. There was no deliverance to be found when that mouth slipped up and  back down. No redemption when a tongue teased along the head of Harry’s cock until he was leaking all over his sheets.

There was no real mouth to catch all his juices within rosebud lips. There was no tongue to lap up at it, to tease at his cockhole as the imaginary mouth did to drive Harry wild. No, there was no one there at all sitting between Harry’s parted thighs, but it certainly felt like there was. 

Harry felt possessed. Truly and completely out of control. Like a demon was breaking him down only for the thrill of unra veling his resolve. To drink in the pleasured sounds that tumbled from Harry’s lips each time that mouth sucked him in…

_ The Lord is my strength and my shield… _

Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head when teeth suddenly nipped at his head, the whisper of teeth against the sensitive flesh enough to drown him his ecstasy. The world became silent, the only sound in the stagnant air being his heavy breathing and the wet sounds of his cock being stuffed inside a throat.

_ But there was no one there _ , Harry thought dizzily, his fingernails biting into the palms of his hands when the mouth nipped at him again, the pain drawing forth a guttural moan from deep within his throat.

“P-please, Lord, save me…”

Harry was begging, but there was no one to answer him. The mouth took him deep inside and played with the soft flesh at the tip of his cock; the grazing of teeth right at the underside as it passed making something build at the base of Harry’s navel.

“P-please, I-I,” Harry felt himself nearing the cliffside; his own understanding of the human body shedding light to what it was that was looming over the horizon.

_ No... _

Harry was both thrilled and horrified, his mouth parting to beg once more to be released. To stop the pleasure from twisting his insides, but then the mouth sank teeth into his head.  _ Hard _ .

Indescribable pain shot up Harry’s spine, and then he came with a sharp cry.

_ Please, forgive me... _

Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head from both the pain and pleasure, his mouth splaying open as he splattered over himself and the sheets beneath his bare skin.

His limbs were shaking from the force of his orgasm; his spine twitching still from the aftershocks despite how desperately his mind wanted to shut down. His body slumped against the bed, the invisible chains holding him down evaporating as exhaustion weighed him down.

There were tears of frustration gathering at the corners of his eyes, but Harry was too tired to let them fall. His consciousness was fading, the sweet pull of slumber dragging him further and further under. Toward an abyss, an endless black that resembled the intensity of Tom Riddle’s eyes...

Harry fought against the lull, struggled against the sweet whisper that sounded awfully like Tom crooning for him to sleep, praising him for how  _ good  _ he had been, and to simply give in.

But Harry could not submit to the darkness, not when he had lost himself to the pleasure, to the smooth tongue and sharp teeth that had forced him over the edge. Not when he had given in to pain, an indescribable agony that made his spine jolt and his cock begin to stir at the memory...

Harry had sinned. The moist residue between his thighs; the stickiness wetting the sheets beneath his legs evidence of what he had done. How could he possibly go to sleep without praying and supplicating to his Lord for what he had done? How could he allow himself to rest when he had defiled both the church and himself in this single instance?

_ Forgive me Lord, for my weakness… _ Harry thought tiredly, his lip quivering with his desire to cry at the humiliation of it all.

His mind begged for forgiveness, the words “ _ I’m sorry _ ” chanted over and over within his mind as he fought off the shadows at the corners of his vision. But there was a whisper that lingered, a voice that sounded nothing like his own awashed with delight; a purr that reminded him of just how pleasurable it had been, of how delicious it was to  _ sin. _

A voice that felt foreign and unknown, yet too familiar as it whispered sweet nothings between each supplication for forgiveness within Harry’s mind. A thought that unearthed the memory of just how pleasurable it had been, how delicious and  _ fantastic  _ it was to feel satin lips wrap around him like a fist and befuddle his thoughts. 

Of how he wished he could feel it again, of how he should take his prick into his hand and...

Harry ignored that voice, guilt consuming him.

His chest felt tight from the weight of his actions, the shame and guilt like a sharp blade pressed into his sternum as he drowned in the waves of those conflicted emotions. The locket was was sitting right above his ribcage, but the cold metal was no relief to the disappointment he felt.

For the betrayal, for his defeat. The metal felt suffocating, his throat constricted by the chain wrapped around his neck. But it was only fitting that he feel this way. He had failed God and he had failed his church. 

He deserved to be punished, and Harry closed his eyes then, the sweet pull of sleep dragging him under.

_ My Lord, please forgive me... _

* * *

 

Harry dreaded going to sleep. 

After the first series of dreams— the first being the most memorable as he woke with his boxers drenched with his...fluids—he’d made it a habit to sleep less. To exhaust himself as best he could by taking on more duties in the church and exercising after he accomplished his tasks.

It had been very trying, his mind in a haze and unable to give the lively sermons he was known for by his parishioners. But it was a risk Harry was willing to take. He could not allow himself to sink so low that he would become a hypocrite.

Harry did not study the scriptures, did not beat devotion into his skin, to simply be defeated by such visceral dreams and primal needs. No, Harry refused to give in. He would not be defeated, not when God had armed him with the tools to win.

He was the messenger of God. He was the guiding light, the one that stood between total ruin and complete salvation. Harry could not just submit; there was too much at stake. 

Harry had a responsibility to the church, to the word of God, as much as he had a duty to the men, women, and children that walked into His walls. He would do this for them, and for himself. He could resist; he will put trust in his faith. The Lord would not lead him astray.

Harry sighed before turning his attention to the papers beneath his hands, the words unrecognizable now after spending hours reading through documents. It wasn’t common for Father Dumbledore to make him handle paper; the man was more than aware that Harry blossomed when moving and extending his hand out to those that were fleeing from the mercurial English weather.

But this was a task that Father Dumbledore had specifically given him, and Harry would see it through. Even if it pained him at times to focus his tired gaze ot the man’s distinct penmanship, to circle and insert commentary between the dense writing with his own scrawl.

If Dumbledore used print, then perhaps the whole affair would have been done already. But the man wrote in cursive, and that was certainly not easy to decipher. Even after years of working together with the man, Harry just never managed to get the hang of it.

_ “Father _ ,” Harry froze, his fingers dropping the pen he’d been holding with a loud clatter when he heard a voice that most certainly should  _ not  _ be in his bedroom. Swiveling around, Harry gasped when he caught sight of familiar black eyes, the man’s handsome features looking out of place in Harry’s sparsely furnished bedroom.

_ He shouldn’t be here… _

Harry unconsciously wrapped his hand around the locket, a nervous habit he had picked up after spending weeks with the trinket wrapped around his throat. 

Tom had been right when he said that it was good luck. It was almost strange how the most dangerous and risky of issues would disappear from Harry’s life as quickly as they came. Like the rabid dog that had cornered him and had suddenly fallen dead after a flowerpot had fallen on its head, or the violent thief that had nearly bled out after cutting into his own hand when he’d tried to threaten Harry at knife point, several days prior.

Harry was convinced that the Lord had smiled upon him for wearing this gift. For casting aside his reservations of the man that now stood standing within his bedroom, and giving Tom the chance he deserved.

Though now, Harry was unsure if that had been the correct decision. Tom was in his bedroom, the door only a meter away from where the tall man stood. Harry could not leave, not without confronting the man first.

“W-what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here, Tom,” Harry stammered, quickly rising to his feet when Tom began to walk nearer to him, Tom’s imposing stature making adrenaline pump through his veins.

“Have you forgotten already, Father? You  _ summoned  _ me here,” Tom purred, stopping centimeters from Harry’s shorter height. 

Harry craned his neck to look the man in the eye, to take in the emotions dancing in the dark pools as his lips twisted into an amused grin.

“S-summoned? I don’t remember doing anything like that. J-just leave.” 

His heart was beating a mile a minute when Tom had yet to move. A heavy silence fell between them and Harry rebelled at being submerged. Harry’s mind was hyper-aware of the distance between them; his body practically attuned to each breath Tom released from his mouth. 

And Harry hated it, his blood boiling within his veins at just how weak he was when Tom was involved. Hated how he had to resort to prayers to clear his mind whenever Tom was in the room.

_ The Lord is my strength and my shield… _

“Will you really turn me away?” Tom asked. “Cast me aside after I have come all this way for you? When I am in desperate  _ need  _ for your companionship?” 

Tom sounded hurt, but Harry did not believe the sound for a moment; he could see the mischief dancing within the black eyes, could see the way Tom’s body was practically vibrating with energy.

No, Tom was not hurt at all.

And then Tom closed the gap between them, his arm wrapping tightly around his waist, while the other threaded into his hair, his fingers pulling so hard on the strands that Harry began to struggle. His arms shot out to be rid of Tom’s burning touch.

“ _ Don’t _ .”

But Tom did not shrink away when Harry landed a hard blow on the man’s shin, or when he buried his fist into the man’s cheek. Tom was immovable and incredibly solid; more a wall than a person made with flesh and blood as Harry continued to kick and punch. Tom was unaffected, as if Harry’s blows were like nagging insects buzzing around his meal. An annoyance, but nothing more.

Harry felt fear twist within his gut, and beneath it all, the familiar tug of excitement right at the edges of the panic.

_ My heart trusts in the Lord, and He helps me… _

Harry gasped when the arm tugged him flush against Tom’s chest, the heat of the man’s body burning straight through the thin nightshirt Harry was wearing. 

“T-tom, what do you think you’re doing!?” Harry strained, his body twisting to escape when a hand carded into Harry’s hair, soft fingers threading through the wild curls, before yanking hard on the strands to force his face unbearably close to the man’s rosy lips.

Harry could not help but stare, his fighting instinct tapering off...

Helplessly, Harry was drawn into them, the splotch of color on otherwise pale skin like a beacon of light in a sea of black. There was a traitorous thought in the back of his head urging him to lean in—to taste the man’s skin—but Harry held fast, fighting the haze that threatened to overtake him.

Tom leaned in and pressed his lips softly against the corner of Harry’s mouth.  

Harry froze. The distance from Harry’s lips so minute that his arms fell uselessly at his sides at the merest press because  _ Tom could not possibly be touching him this way _

Tom whispered in a husky tone, “Fulfilling your needs,  _ Father _ . Don’t think I have not seen the way you look at me…Of how you’re looking at me now with those rich, emerald eyes...broadcasting your illicit desires...”

_ My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise Him… _

“I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about. Just stop, you can still turn back. You can still protect yourself from the hands of Satan, you can still do what’s  _ right _ ,” Harry tried, but stopped when Tom began to laugh softly against his skin; the vibrations of the man’s laughter making a spark of desire shoot up Harry’s spine.

Harry was afraid...and dancing precariously near the edge of a desire that threatened to devour him whole.

Tom didn’t seem to listen, instead pressing his lips against Harry’s mouth, savouring the taste whilst simultaneously ignoring Harry’s pleas, the touch lighting something aflame in Harry’s gut.“Is it me that needs protecting or is it you, Father? I don’t care about what is right or wrong. That matters little when you’re shaking like a leaf...” Tom murmured.  

Harry gasped, startled by the softness in the touch and how his spine bent, bliss singing in his blood when Tom laved his tongue against Harry’s bottom lip, the touch questing as Harry tried to settle his wild thoughts. His eyes drawn in by the dark promises in Tom’s eyes as the man kissed him.

_ No, I musn’t... _

But then Tom took his bottom lip between his teeth, the sharp pain enough to drown out the voice of reason urging Harry to resist. Harry opened his mouth, his arms latching onto Tom’s shoulders to press him closer, to draw more ichor from the man’s mouth and drink it. He tasted of dark chocolate and...something else, the flavor rich on Harry’s tongue as he was overwhelmed by the man’s taste.

_ Yes… _

Harry felt familiar heat coil like squirming serpents in his belly, his eyes closing shut and his body submitting completely to the man that teased and prodded lightly against his own tongue. 

Harry knew this was a sin, could feel the guilt in the back of his mind burning for him to resist and to stop. But Tom felt too good, his mouth tasted better than the most expensive of wines, the dark chocolate bitter and sweet all at once. It was better than the treats the children often brought him when he was leading mass, more wholesome and saccharine, more savory and rich. It was unlike anything Harry had ever tasted before...

Harry moaned when Tom’s tongue caressed his own, the muscle coaxing his tongue to move as Tom dug his fingernails into the back of Harry’s head to press their faces closer, deepening the kiss.

Harry  _ wanted. _

The man’s grip on his waist slackened for a moment to slip beneath the shirt, his fingers hot and tantalizing as Harry sucked Tom’s tongue into his mouth. The sound of the man’s pleasured moans spurring Harry to pull the man even closer, to drink the man in.

And then those fingers were traveling from his lower back and around to his navel, the hot digits drawing a pleased mewl from Harry’s lips. 

_ Please forgive me Lord, but I cannot resist… _

Harry arched his back, a hiss ripped from his lips when Tom dug his nails into the skin, scratching up his belly and to his chest, his fingers resting centimeters beneath the cold locket pressed against his torso.

_ Touch me, please... _

Tom then tugged at Harry’s hair and Harry stopped sucking the man’s tongue, giving in completely when Tom sucked Harry’s tongue inside, teeth catching on the delicate skin.

Harry whined, pain dancing along his spine as his glasses dipped low on the bridge of his nose. The sharp sting was enough to lift some of the haze that had fallen over his mind, and Harry felt the world suddenly sharpen around him.

Harry’s shame and panic were immediate, his body seizing up entirely when Tom suddenly pulled his lips away to trail burning kisses down his neck, tongue teasing along the sensitive point underneath his chin. 

“N-no, stop,” Harry cried out, but then two fingers latched around a nipple and tugged. A shudder of delight pulled at Harry’s navel, and his resistance was swept away by the sparks of electricity shooting up his spine each time Tom flicked his nipple and twisted the hardening nub between his thumb and index finger.

“You don’t really want me to stop, do you, Father? You want me to  _ defile  _ you,” Tom crooned and Harry whimpered when the man yanked hard on his nipple, the pain blending seamlessly with the pleasure burying his lucidity.

“I-I— _ ah _ .”

All thought fled Harry’s mind when Tom suddenly sank his teeth into his neck, the pain like a blunt knife pushing between one’s ribs; the man’s teeth cutting so deep into his throat that Harry knew he would bruise. 

_ More... _

Harry drowned in the pain, his back arching and his head falling to one side to offer more of himself to the man that was breaking him apart. Lost and eaten away by the pleasure that overwhelmed his addled mind.

“O-oh, please,” Harry gasped, lost to the bliss, not quite sure what he’s pleading for anymore.  

Tom pulled away from his neck to trail a hot tongue around the bruised skin, the gesture so gentle that Harry did not expect pain when Tom stabbed his teeth into the flesh again; the man’s fingers suddenly squeezing his nipple so hard that Harry saw white.

Harry’s mind went silent, the pressure that had been burning at his navel finally snapping his control to pieces. He came hard, coming apart in Tom’s hands as a flood of heat drenched his trousers with his seed.

The fabric was completely ruined, sullied and wet, and Harry’s mouth splayed open in a silent scream as he drowned in the aftershocks of his release.

Harry breathed harshly through it, his eyes wet with both shame and euphoria. His guilt ate away at him, and Harry felt himself slump in the man’s arms bonelessly; his knees giving out entirely beneath him.

_ Deliver me from this sin, my Lord. I cannot bear to show my face otherwise… _

“Mm, your Lord cannot save you,” Harry heard Tom whisper into his ear, the hot breath making Harry shiver as the man spoke against his skin. Harry wanted to deny it, to shout and shove the man away for the slight against God, but then his vision swam, suddenly overcome with intense drowsiness.

Tom chuckled into his ear, seemingly sensing Harry’s fruitless struggles, before Tom’s hand tugged at the locket against Harry’s chest lightly and spoke against the shell of Harry’s ear. “He has abandoned you, forsaken you…” The words were muddled, but Harry was not so far gone that he couldn’t understand the heavy implication in the man’s words.

“From this day forth, you put your faith...  _ in me. _ ”

* * *

 

Harry awoke with a start, his face pressed against his desk as he tried to make sense of where he was and when exactly he had fallen asleep. 

And then the vivid dream that played in the back of his eyes and Harry felt his stomach sink.

_ Tom Riddle. _

Harry shuddered, recalling the darkness in the man’s gaze and the predatory grin that broke on his face when he kiss him, when his fingers teased at his nipples, and when Harry came undone beneath his hands...

_ I’ve been dreaming about Tom Riddle…He’s the invisible figure in my dreams... _

Harry tried to settle his breathing, to take in much needed air in a more controlled manner even though his heart felt as if it was about to crawl up his throat. It was difficult, considering the kind of dream he had had. The kind of things Tom had said, and Harry had said in turn.

Harry’s face felt hot.

It was several moments before Harry felt his heart settle and his breathing regain a more natural pace. 

He still felt hot and uncomfortable where he sat in the room, his neck and lower back achy after falling asleep in such a strange position. But it was markedly better than how he had awoken earlier; the taste of the man’s lips like dark chocolate and that rich taste Harry could not identify…

It had only been a dream.

Harry felt himself relax for a moment before wincing when he noticed the moisture pooled between his thighs, his trousers soiled with his essence.

Another pair of trousers lost, another sin for which Harry would need to repent for.

Harry felt frustration swell within his gut. His eyes pricked with tears as he stood up from where’d been sitting to survey the room. He was paranoid, a bit frightened at the idea of Tom somehow popping into his bedroom as he had within Harry’s dream…

But no, Riddle would never appear in his bedroom. It was a simple dream. A nightmare that Satan was forcing upon him to challenge his faith. A temptation to sway him away from the heavenly light.

Harry would not allow it, he would do whatever it took to remain unaffected. He would resist the allure, even if he’d lost every battle since the invisible person had begun visiting him weeks before.

But no more. Harry would not be defeated again.

Even if the faceless person had turned out to be Riddle. Even if his heart patted harshly within his chest at the thought of seeing the man; of feeling those hot fingers press against his skin and that hot mouth trail kisses along his—

“The Lord is the strength of his people, a fortress of salvation for this anointed one… _ ”  _ Harry prayed, shoving aside the illicit fantasy that had suddenly filtered into his waking thoughts.

Harry would prevail. He had God on his side.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale. All of the tags will be more than applicable here. Please be mindful of them. Things escalate rather quickly here.
> 
> Again, if you're offended easily by the act of blasphemy, do not continue.
> 
> Leave comments or kudos if you enjoyed the story. I do read the comments and respond.

Harry did not prevail.

The dreams came with more frequency. There was no mercy, his exhaustion insufficient to stop his mind from concocting explicit dreams and drowning him in the ecstasy that thrummed beneath his veins each time Tom touched him, or when the man whispered filthy words into his ear.

It made the skin at the back of Harry’s neck crawl at how easily the man could undo him; of how Tom’s fingers trailing low at his navel could make him tense, of how his cock would swell with desire at the merest press of those fingers against the skin.

Harry had fasted for days as punishment for his sins. The thought of food passing through his lips after endless nights of dirty underwear and sweat-slicked skin made his stomach protest. He couldn’t think to eat when he had failed time and time again, the Lord’s words doing nothing as Tom’s hands had forced Harry’s trembling thighs apart and took him into his mouth.

The pleasure was sweet, decadent and rich on his tongue despite the noxious fear and shame swirling in the back of his mind...

But his shame and his fear were not enough to stop him from arching his back into Tom’s mouth in those depraved dreams. They were not enough to stop him from begging for the man to eat him whole; to sink his teeth into flesh and bone to rip wails from Harry’s throat from the delicious pain.

Harry held onto his faith despite the hopelessness of the situation, clinging to the words of scripture for an answer to the dreams that became more and more filthy as the days passed.

_ The Lord is the strength of his people, a fortress of salvation for his anointed one… _ Harry thought, his fingers gripping tightly on the flogger before bringing the coarse leather harshly against his back; the pain welcomed as he tried to purge himself of the memories of those dreams...of his own reactions as he was tipped over the edge again and  _ again. _

The room was cold and dank; the chamber the perfect place to mete out his punishment. Harry had not been a frequent visitor of this room. He had never needed the pain of the whip to strip him of his worldly desires; he had no need when the word of God had been enough to cleanse him whenever a stray thought had led him down a precarious path.

That had all changed.

Now, he was more than a frequent visitor. He would visit this chamber at least four times a week, exposing his back to the humid air to cut into the delicate flesh with one of a series of floggers they held in the chapel. It was what Harry deserved. 

He had failed the Lord. He needed to be punished for his constant betrayal.

Harry hissed when the leather bit into his spine, the pain spreading around his limbs as he flogged himself repeatedly, his body trembling with the force of the blows. He needed to atone for his most recent dream, to wash away the sensation of a finger trailing down his back and slipping between the crack of his buttocks…

_ No, I will not think of it. _

“My son, do not reject the discipline of the Lord or loathe His reproof…”

Harry’s vision swam when he brought the leather harder into his back, his body weak after days of fasting and punishing himself. He was desperate to be free of this, to seize onto the merest sliver of atonement he could hold.

Harry knew that he would need to eat some point. His body would give out if he did not properly care for himself. There was no denying this when his participation in mass had become markedly limited; his energy shorn by the power of his nightmares, the days of refusing food, and of cutting into his back with the sharp press of the whip.

But what other option did Harry have? 

The dreams did not stop.

No,  _ it refused to stop _ . 

Harry could see in his mind’s eye the most recent dream, the memory of that finger pressing into a place that no finger should go, enough to draw forth pleased cries and to make Harry forget entirely of how  _ wrong  _ such a touch was.

_ Harry’s body was weak, just as he had been time and time again. His body pliant and exposed, his legs hanging over Tom’s shoulders as those fingers pushed deeply inside; the digits twisting and curling as he forced his way in as if searching for something within Harry’s tight walls... _

“For whom the Lord loves He reproves _ … _ ”

His thoughts were leading him down a dangerous path Harry did not wish to go. Harry stifled a scream when he brought down the whip more viciously into his back. 

_ Harry cried out when Tom’s fingers brushed against something inside him, the jolt of ecstasy making his vision swim as Tom pushed against it now, his sweat-slicked forehead glinting beneath the moonlight trickling inside Harry’s bedroom. _

“Even as a father corrects the son in whom he delights…”

Harry thrust his arm once more, and he cried out when he was certain he felt the leather cut skin. The hit burned, smarted worse than any of the hits Harry rained on his back, but still, he persisted despite the heat that trickled down his navel and made his cock stir to life.

_ “P-please stop—nngh, !” Harry moaned out, his tongue lolling from his mouth when Tom thrust a second finger inside and twisted, bumping into the strange bundle of nerves a second time. _

_ “You’re so warm and wet inside, Father…” Tom groaned, and Harry whined when the man pushed a third finger in and began to fuck him more earnestly then.  _

_ The fingers slammed into the strange spot over and over again, giving Harry no opportunity to speak. _

_ His eyes took in how Tom grasped onto a bottle of wine beside the desk before uncapping it and spilling its contents all over Harry’s chest and parted thighs. The liquid drenched him, the red making his skin shine a bright pink as Tom continued to fuck him on his fingers despite how wrong this all was... _

“W-when I kept silent about my sin, m-my body wasted away…” Harry choked out, begging for the pain to deliver him. For the agony to lead him away from the sordid memories and the way his cock stirred to life at even the faintest whisper of pain.

_ “L-lord please forgive me!” Harry begged when his vision went white, the pressure tugging at his navel pulling him under when Tom sank his teeth into Harry’s inner thigh; his fingers curling and twisting inside to wrench another powerful orgasm as he tasted the Blood of Christ along his skin... _

“Through my groaning all day long. For day and night. Your hand was heavy upon me,” Harry shuddered at the memory of his orgasm washing through him, his arms and legs trembling as he stood before a mural of Jesus Christ on the wall, his guilt burning low in his belly when his hardness refused to abate.

_ “Forgiveness? You are not  _ deserving _. Look at how you wear the blood of your savior against your skin, your parted thighs soiled with your betrayal,” Tom whispered, dipping low on Harry’s chest to lick at the droplets of wine on his flesh.  _

_ The man’s eyes penetrated his own, and Harry gasped when one of Tom’s soiled fingers, wet with wine and his essence slipped inside Harry’s parted mouth. _

_ “Taste your undoing. Savor your  _ sin.”

Harry wanted to die from the shame at the memory, his anguish ending all his movement.

He dropped his arm, and he released the flogger, the sound of wood clattering to the ground echoing in the small, empty chamber as he tried to regulate his short breaths.

Harry did not know how long he had been here, or what time it was in the world outside—there were no windows for him to look out from. But guessing from the dizziness that suddenly overtook him, and the trembling of his shoulders as he tried to keep himself from swaying and dropping to the ground, he had been there for too long.

It was his turn to take confessionals that evening. Harry could not afford to linger in the dark longer than he already had. 

Harry took a slow, deep breath as he willed his body to cease its trembling—his mind blissfully empty of the heat of Tom’s body against his own.

It took him longer than Harry liked to recover from this session; his cock refusing to soften even after his breathing had settled, but there was simply no helping it.

Harry needed to go.

And although it physically pained him to go out in such a state, Harry could not shirk his duties. Not after he had been doing terribly the past few weeks. 

Harry needed to make things right, and although his state was not ideal. Harry was convinced that the heat churning inside will die down in a few hours...as it often did when he did his tasks. 

Harry could do this.

* * *

 

The night had been slow, the trickling of parishioners tapering off as the early evening began to make way to dusk. 

Harry could not tell how late it was, his watch was left behind when he had rushed out from his flat that morning, but he didn’t need it to know precisely how late it was getting.

The closer to midnight it became, the emptier the chapel became. It was simply common sense, and Harry sighed, his fingers clasping tightly around his rosary as he tried to stave off his exhaustion and hunger.

His back still ached from when he’d flogged himself earlier in the day, but that was not the true reason for his discomfort.

His cock was still swollen between his legs, his cheeks flushed and his skin clammy with his sweat.

It had been in such a state since he had left the chamber, and now, inside the confession’s box, it became more readily apparent that nothing could make the heat melt away. He heard some atrocious confessions throughout the night—the statements ranging from their delight in seeing the pain of others to the milder confessions remarking on how they have sinned for missing mass, and failing to take communion. 

The monotony and the depravity of some of the confessions should have been enough to cut through his desire like a hot knife to butter, but it didn’t. The locket felt cold against his bare chest, the metal slipped under the layers of his robes.

It was the only relief he had from the stifling heat inside the box — the cool surface enough to calm his nerves and settle the rapid racing of his heart, but hardly enough to melt away the heat that licked at the back of his spine and the feeling of his robes rubbing against his —

Harry was startled from his thoughts when the door at the other end of the box opened, the soft thud of footsteps on hardwood alerting Harry instantly that someone had come inside.

It was rather late for anyone to be making a confession, but Harry would not judge. He could understand the appeal of coming in at night to bare his soul to the Lord. He himself often did when he needed to find guidance — to clear his head from the disastrous thoughts that assailed him.

“Welcome, my son,” Harry said, his body shifting slightly to get more comfortable in his seat as he cast his gaze to the screen, waiting patiently for the person to speak.

Harry heard shuffling from the other side of the confession’s box before heavy silence fell between them.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 15 years since my last confession.”

Harry nearly dropped his rosary in surprise, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to make sense of just  _ who  _ it was that was at the other side of the screen.

Harry would recognize that voice anywhere, having heard it whispering into his mind right as he fell asleep. It was an unmistakable tenor, a suave and rich sound that trickled like moving water in a bubbling brook. 

It was Tom. The man that had been plaguing his dreams was here. 

Harry’s heart sped up with unease, his cock twitching at just the sound of the man shifting in the other side of the room.

“My sins are many, Father. I don’t know where I should even begin…” Tom said. 

Harry swallowed nervously to compose himself before speaking, understanding implicitly that Tom wanted him to assure him that he would listen to them all. That he was there for him, and he’d everything in his power to lighten Tom’s soul.

“I will listen to everything that you have to say. This moment is just between you and God, and whatever your sins are, it is not my place to pass judgement on them,” Harry assured, falling into his role easily.

The man was silent for a moment, before he spoke once more, his voice thick with contriteness. 

“I have missed mass for the past few weeks. I have been unable to listen to your beautiful sermons, Father,” Tom began and Harry tried to shift in the box. The compliment felt simple coming from Tom’s mouth, but Harry knew that this man had done nothing to deserve internal censure. 

The Tom of the real world had not touched him at all. He had spoken to him, smiled and gifted him the beautiful locket that rested at his chest, but the man had never touched him inappropriately. Not even the instance many moons ago when Harry had felt a hand slide up his back, did Harry genuinely believe Tom was the one to have done it. 

The touch then had been like ice, unlike the time Harry had taken the locket from the man’s soft grip. Tom’s hand had been hot to the touch, a sharp contrast from the cold that threaded in his spine that night almost a month ago. Tom’s touch had been like a lit match, hot enough to singe fabric. 

Harry was shaken from his thoughts when Tom spoke again.

“I...have had impure thoughts about another. A person that has been claimed by another,” Tom said, and Harry froze, his fingers clutching so tightly at the rosary in his hands that his knuckles were white.

“He is a man of God. Pure and untouchable, and I have these thoughts that I should not have. I see him in my dreams, can taste his lips against my own and...I am at a loss of what to do,” Tom’s low and husky as he spoke.

Harry’s heart felt like it would come out of his throat. His cock stiffened further at the words leaving Tom’s mouth. 

_ No, this could not be. Lord, please do not do this to me. _

“I am afraid of doing something I will regret, of putting him a position where he will be backed between a wall and a hard place…” 

Tom’s voice was a soft croon, and Harry dragged a deep breath into his lungs, unsure of what to do.

His mind was racing a mile a minute. Impure thoughts of Tom flashed before his mind’s eye before he could stop himself. 

_ God, please do not forsaken me. _

“It is so difficult, Father, to control these desires. Because I want nothing more than to sink my fingers into that dark, curly hair and wrench delicious cries from those lips. I want to see those eyes half-lidded in bliss until only  _ I  _ am the sole person on his mind.”

Harry nearly whimpered at the words, his bollocks tight as Tom whispered filthy words about how he wanted to fuck a man of the cloth.

_ Was that me?  _ Harry wondered then, digging his fingers harshly onto the rosary to stop himself from slipping his hand between his legs.

“I want him to be mine. I want him to think only of me, to sink and fall into my web until there is nowhere for him to go,” Tom hissed, and Harry gasped, warmth spreading from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

Harry felt like he was drowning in heat and there was no way for him to come up for air.

“T-this is not appropriate, Tom,” Harry stuttered out, chastising himself for sounding so weak in that instance and for speaking the man’s name.

It was against protocol. Harry  _ knew  _ better.

“I know, Father Potter. But my intentions were not pure when I set foot in this box.”

Harry felt the locket wrapped around his throat pulse; the steady warmth over his skin cresting, the heat consuming him entirely. 

A short hiss passed through his teeth, his grip on the rosary slackening so that one of his hands could palm his prick through the fine layers of his robes.

_ What are you doing, Harry? _

A soft voice in the back of Harry’s head warned, but Harry was drowning. His cock was throbbing, his toes curling within his shoes as he tried to stave off the hunger and the desire twisting his stomach into knots.

“I want to  _ fuck  _ you, Father,” Tom hissed. 

Harry gasped, his fingers trailing softly over his hardened cock, before slipping through the layers of clothes he wore to touch his hot flesh.

His eyes closed for a moment, overwhelmed at just how good it felt. It was wrong—so, so wrong— to wrap his fingers around his prick and stroke. But how could something so wrong feel so good? How could those depraved words leaving Tom’s mouth set his veins ablaze?

“Would you like that? For me to take you here and now, right beneath the roof of  _ your  _ God?” Tom murmured. 

Harry shook his head in denial, unable to voice his protest when his hand moved as if possessed. He increased his pace, his thumb playing with the head of his cock.

“Do you want me to defile you, Father? To have God and his filthy angels watch as I take you?”

Harry moaned at the filthy words, his grip on his cock tightening as he began to move his hand more furiously, his thumb spreading his juices around his prick as he touched himself.

It was delicious and mind-numbing—the desire enough to override all sense that  _ this  _ was wrong. That what he was doing within the confession’s box was sacrilege.

“I have seen your heart and it is mine, Father,” Tom crooned. 

Harry’s eyes slipped shut as he began to twist and beat at his flesh, his navel tight with desire and need. 

“I have  _ seen  _ your dreams, Harry Potter, and I have seen your  _ fears _ …” 

Harry felt a pressure begin to build, his thumb stroking his head as he jerked himself rapidly, unable to stop himself from reaching with his free hand to press onto the wall at the other side, a fruitless attempt to steady his jerky movements.

Harry heard the man laugh then, and Harry felt himself drown. The rich cadence lighting a pyre inside him, like the locket pulsing strange electricity through his limbs…

“And how you break so easily. There is no  _ greater  _ dishonor.” 

Tom chuckled, and Harry whined when his hand suddenly slowed against his wishes; the precipice he had neared, now out of his reach.Tears began to gather at the corners of his eyes, the need to climax so strong that his teeth ached.

“Do you want to cum,  _ Father? _ ” Tom suddenly asked, and Harry thrashed his head desperately as if the man could actually see him. 

“Do you want me to  _ fuck you _ ? Oh sweet child, all you have to do is say the word…” Tom coaxed.

Harry’s mouth parted despite the screaming in the back of his head urging him to stop. A voice that was quickly drowned out by the press of Harry’s nails digging painfully into his cock, the pain ripping a soft cry from his lips.

_ “More, p-please. Let me cum _ ,” Harry gasped, and then his hand stopped altogether, the delicious friction lost.

Harry whined, and Tom laughed at him; a maddening cackle that made the hairs in the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. It was wild and high, unlike any sound Harry had ever heard before. 

It was not the rich baritone of Tom Riddle. It was something else, an inhuman sound that extinguished the sultry heat that had overtaken him. The haze from his mind had lifted, and Harry felt his shame and humiliation burn hot against his cheeks when he caught sight of his soiled trousers, his habit and hand drenched with a clear, viscous fluid.

“N-no!” Harry felt despair seize him then, his hand pulling away from his cock as if burned. 

“ _ Yes…” _ Tom’s sibilant tone interjected, and Harry scrambled out from within the confession’s box, fear and desire warring inside him as he slammed the small, wooden door open and ran towards the back exit nearest to the altar, tucking his shame back into his pants as he did.

“Where do you think you’re going, Father? I have not finished with my confession.”

The voice was like ice shooting down his spine, and Harry felt his body lock. His legs were rooted in place, his muscles jumping but otherwise, refusing to move as Harry begged for his body to do something.

The exit was only a meter away from where he’d stopped, the altar where the parishioners came forward to take the flesh and blood of christ digging into his hip as he tried to compose himself. To think of something, or to do something to get himself out of this mess.

“W-what is this? What have you done to me!?” Harry’s arms flailed, the only part of his body permitted to move, as footsteps came from somewhere behind Harry; the steps reverberating around the empty room.

It was as if a thousand men were walking into the chapel, but Harry knew for a fact that it was only just them. 

“The Lord is the strength of his people, a fortress of salvation for this anointed one… _ ”  _ Harry began to pray, and flinched when a hand was suddenly at his hip, while the other wound its grip around his throat.

Harry had never been more afraid in his entire life. Sharp claws dug into his skin, and Harry wondered faintly when Tom had suddenly grown such long nails...

“Your  _ Lord  _ is not here right now, he cannot save you. Your heart and your soul belong to  _ me _ .” 

The voice was unfamiliar, and Harry cried out when Tom suddenly shoved him belly-down into the altar, the hand digging into his hip smoothing over to press hard into the small of his back to keep him bent over the draped surface. The touch stung, the welts on his back caught between the man’s hand digging into the tender flesh.

“The Lord is mighty and— _ ah! _ ” Harry cried out when a hand wound its way into his hair and wrenched his head back, his spine bending uncomfortably to catch sight of the cross right in front of him. Harry swallowed nervously, his mouth dry when Tom began to laugh once more, the sound unhinged.

“Oh, Harry, only I can live forever. Your  _ God _ …” the man hissed into his ear, a tongue lapping at the quivering skin, “does not  _ exist _ , and even if he did, he has  _ forsaken  _ you _.  _ Your faith was entirely misplaced.” 

Harry gasped when that tongue lowered to his throat, teeth nipping at the skin before pulling away. His legs were shaking, his arms pressed against the altar useless as he tried to make sense of just what was happening. 

“Your faith...your desire...your virtue...all of it is mine,” Tom said. 

Then Harry heard something tear, the sting catching him by surprise when cold air met skin. His buttocks were exposed to the man’s gaze.

“D-don’t you dare, T-Tom. The Lord will smite— _ nngh _ !” 

And then a deft hand slipped between his legs to cup his cock, long nails playing with the soft skin as they dragged and teased at him until he was bucking and writhing against the altar.

“My  _ name  _ is not Tom,” the man crooned behind him and Harry sank his teeth into his bottom lip to stop himself from crying out when Tom released his cock to slap sharply at his bottom.

How was Tom not his name? Harry had taken the teen  _ in.  _ Harry had known him when he was poor and dirty, when he had come to the church in need of guidance. How was this not the cold boy Harry had met all those years ago?

“I am  _ Lord Voldemort _ , your Lord and Master.”

Harry felt all the color drain from his cheeks. His mind exploded with hysteria, his panic choking him more tightly than even a closed hand around his throat.

The Devil was in the church. The literal Devil was pressing him against the altar. Harry had been  _ seeing  _ the Devil in his dreams, had been made to climax over and over again under the intense scrutiny of a creature Harry had been taught to loathe.

Harry felt fury overtake him.

“Y-you son of a—”

“Now, now, that’s not appropriate language for a man of the cloth,” Voldemort teased as Harry kicked and struggled, the strange power that had possessed him earlier dwindling and giving Harry ample opportunity to fight back.

_ I let the Devil in… _

Harry felt some of himself shrivel up and die, his rage so palpable that he cared little that Voldemort was laughing away his struggles; his grip on his hair tightening to the point that Harry swore some of the strands had been torn straight from his head. But his struggling was useless, the position he was in did not allow him to do much else but writhe and rub uncomfortably against the man at his back.

Harry’s back ached every time he so much as lifted his arms in an attempt to wrench the Devil’s infuriating grip from his hair, pain in his spine pounding until Harry dropped his arms back down to the altar to relieve the tension. The tenderness of his flesh a painful reminder of what he had been doing hours earlier as the man rubbed against his smarted back.

It only made him angrier and more exhausted with how helpless he had been. With how weak and stupid he had been. 

How had Harry failed to see that this was  _ the Devil _ ? How had he allowed himself to be soiled in this way?

“Are you finished?” Voldemort crooned, and Harry was tempted to swear at the man. His body tensed when the devil laughed into his ear, a cold breath washing against the skin. It felt as if death itself was touching him, its icy fingers splaying along the delicate skin to steal what little warmth Harry had.

“As interesting as it is to watch you struggle uselessly against me, there is something more interesting we can do…” 

Harry swallowed back a cry when the hand smacked at his cheek, the hit burning across the skin. 

“G-go back to hell!” Harry shouted, but the Devil ignored him entirely to land another blow across his skin, the smack echoing in the heavy silence of the chapel.

Harry’s cheeks were red from both his anger and his embarrassment when a clawed hand dug into the skin, the sharp pain enough to stir his cock into awareness. 

“It still surprises me just how masochistic you are, Father. I had expected to take months trying to mold you to suit my needs, but my, I hardly had to do a thing…” 

Harry squirmed when another smack landed on his cheek, the burn of Voldemort’s palm making his teeth gnash on his bottom lip. 

He refused to cry out. He’d spent too long bending to this demon’s whims. 

“S-shut up,” Harry grit out, anticipating Voldemort’s next blow as the hand rubbed and caressed the inflamed skin. 

“But don’t you want to know  _ how  _ I am here at your side, Father? How I have poisoned your thoughts and made you crave my fingers against your skin?” Voldemort said, his tone curious and amused as Harry tried to jerk his head away from Voldemort’s tight grip on his hair.

It was futile, but Harry still had to try.

“I don’t want to know. I don’t  _ care _ it will not change a single thing. You’re here to kill me, to hold my death under God’s nose,” Harry hissed.Voldemort chuckled into his ear, an unusually long, and forked tongue touching against his ear before a hot mouth opened to take in the shell between his teeth.

Harry released a sharp breath from the sensation, his skin burning up when Voldemort’s hand kneaded at the flesh of his bottom as he did. 

It was several seconds before Voldemort finally released Harry’s ear and spoke, his hand suddenly gripping so tightly on his arse that he whimpered from the pain, unable to stifle the sound when those nails were biting into the soft skin.

“The locket, Father...it has slowly eaten away at your resolve,” Voldemort whispered and Harry groaned in relief when Voldemort released his brutal grip on Harry’s arse entirely. The absence of the man’s cold skin made something like disappointment swell within his navel.

Harry hated himself more than he ever thought he could, the disappointment like acid.

“Your soul was already corrupted before I even deemed to give you the locket, your desires like the sweetest ambrosia as you looked upon me with hunger and desire...your unease and fear delicious as they danced around your aura…all you needed was a push.” 

A cry was ripped out of him when something leathery suddenly smacked his arse, the object thick and wide as the pain shot up his spine. 

“W-what are you—?” Harry panted around the question, swallowing a scream when the object hit him again, the smack like a gunshot in a silent night. 

“Oh, this? One would think a clergyman such as yourself would know what a bible feels like…” Voldemort mocked.

Harry screamed when the book smashed against his arse once more; the pain enough to make tears gather at the corner of Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s arse was on fire. From the  _ holy bible. _

“Funny, the damage a silly little book can do…”

_ Smack. _

Harry shouted, the throbbing on his cheeks making him tense and writhe beneath the man’s firm grip.

_ Oh God, please help me… _ Harry thought desperately, his spine trembling when he felt the book smooth over his cheeks softly, before pulling away.

Harry tensed, waiting for the blow to come. Anticipation twisted Harry’s stomach to knots, his fear and his...desire making his cock leak out.

Harry was humiliated at how the pain did nothing to soften him. How the merest press of Voldemort’s lips against his ear as he teased along his arse with the bible made sparks of ecstasy dance along his spine.

_ Smack. _

Harry moaned this time, the blow hard enough to rattle his bones and to rub his cock up against the altar—the friction eliciting another pleasured mewl when Voldemort smacked into him again, and again, and  _ again. _

Harry’s mind fell silent for a moment, his body suspended between painful pleasure and pleasurable pain as Voldemort continued to beat the words of God against his arse.

This was wrong. Dirty, filthy and _wrong._ His bare cheeks were kissing the holy book, and he was feeling _pleasure_ over it. 

The thought should have disgusted Harry, should have made his heart heavy with guilt and shame, but it was difficult for him to hold onto that sliver of sanity. Especially when Voldemort stepped closer behind him, and began to kiss and nip at his throat.

Sparks danced along his spine, and Harry felt his eyes roll to the back of his head when Voldemort’s blows became more brutal, his teeth digging more savagely into his neck. Harry couldn’t speak, the mixture of pleasure and pain nearly pushing him over the edge.

And then the blows stopped, the room falling silent save for Harry’s hard pants and Voldemort’s pleased groan.

Harry’s cock throbbed, the desire to cum making him dizzy.

“Can’t have you finishing so early…” Voldemort whispered into Harry’s ear, the utterance nearly drowning out the sound of something clacking in the chamber.

Harry’s legs nearly gave out on him when Voldemort suddenly kicked his legs apart, the stance drawing forth a surprised sound from Harry’s mouth.

_ No...more... _ Harry begged internally, his body like jelly after exerting so much energy screaming and writhing beneath this monster.

“...After all, I always wondered just  _ what  _ you found so fascinating about rosaries. You always seemed to clasp your hands around them when you were nervous...or tempted. It made me quite curious…” 

Harry released a surprised sound when Voldemort suddenly wrenched him back until he was no longer leaning on the altar, and flipped him around; the world turning on its head as Voldemort forced him back until he was laying on the altar, the soft cotton over the top of it scratching along Harry’s spine, the welts across his back chaffing against the material.

It took several seconds for Harry to orient himself, his eyes closing for a second to gather his bearings, before shooting the Devil in front of him a scathing look.

Harry’s breath caught, a lump forming in his throat when instead of the familiar black eyes Harry had been expected, he found crimson instead. A red so intense, so sinister,  that Harry felt like the blood of man had been used to form the color, the swirling of lust and malice doing little to soothe Harry’s hysteria.

Voldemort was nothing like Tom Riddle.

While Tom Riddle, as Harry remembered him, was beautiful with flawless skin that drew the eyes of even the most staunch traditionalists, Voldemort was the exact opposite. If Harry had thought Tom’s skin had been pale, then Voldemort’s skin was that of a ghost. His skin was an off-white color, resembling the documents Father Dumbledore had made him read through weeks earlier.

It was off-putting, the way he simply stood out within the darkened chapel. The moonlight trickling from the windows making him look even more inhuman than before.

Though, even if Voldemort’s skin had not been as white as a sheet, Harry doubted the creature could ever pass off as human. The man had prominent cheeks, similar to the one’s Tom had. However, the situation could not have been any more different.

Harry remembered tracing over those very same cheeks, marveling over Tom’s almost otherworldly beauty. But in Voldemort, however, their sharpness only made Voldemort look more gaunt and skeletal, his otherness made explicit. 

And then there was the fact that Voldemort simply did not have a nose. Because instead of finding Tom’s sharp, thin nose, a feature Harry was all too familiar with, Harry saw two thin slits where Tom’s nose had once been.

The Devil looked more serpent than man, and Harry wondered faintly if this was how he had managed to to trick Eve into taking bite of the apple. 

Harry could not repress the fear that crawled up Harry’s spine, his eyes taking in the monstrous face of a serpentine creature with bright red eyes and thin lips that were slowly stretching into a sardonic grin.

_ An angel and a devil, woven seamlessly as one… _ The thought came unbidden, his dread mounting when Voldemort seized his leg.

_ No! _

Harry kicked out, his hands shooting out as leverage when Voldemort yanked him by the leg and swung it to his shoulder. Panic swam within his eyes when Voldemort’s eyes lingered across the exposed skin, and Harry shot his other leg out pressing it against Voldemort’s chest to stop him from getting closer. 

“S-stay away,” Harry hated how his voice broke, but he continued to push against Voldemort’s chest with his leg, until the man suddenly laughed and a tight hand wrapped around his ankle. He squeezed it so hard within his hand that Harry saw white, a pained cry ripped from his throat when Voldemort wrenched his leg back and over his other shoulder.

Harry tried not to shrink into himself when Voldemort’s eyes drank him in, his eyes lingering on his puckered entrance and his flushed prick.

_ Stop looking at me... _ Harry begged, his skin flushing a bright red when Voldemort’s forked tongue poked out from his lips and his eyes shot up to meet Harry’s startled, emerald gaze.

“Beautiful.”

Harry drew in a sharp breath when Voldemort’s hands pressed to the backs of his knees and pushed his legs further back until his knees were at either side of Harry’s head, his lower body completely exposed to the Devil before him.

Harry’s legs shook, his feet kicking out uselessly as he tried to fight off the Devil’s inhumanely strong grip. But it was useless. Harry would have been odds trying to move a mountain. 

“Hold on to your knees, Harry,” Voldemort commanded after staring at Harry’s leaking cock for several moments.

Harry balked.

Pigs would fly before Harry did  _ anything  _ the man asked.

“No,” Harry seethed, but at the cock of Voldemort’s brow, Harry felt the strange heat around the locket spark to life—seizing control of Harry’s body and forcing his hands to lift and hold on tightly to his knees.

_ No, I don’t want to _ — _ stop it! _

His body refused to obey his commands even as he shouted for them to stop, for his hands to pull away from his knees.

“Spread them open wider, Father,” Voldemort purred, and Harry obeyed despite how loudly he screamed at himself to stop, despite the shame and the humiliation coloring his cheeks a bright red.

The power oozing from the locket was unshakeable. It was as if Harry were a puppet on strings; moved along with just the press of a finger or a whispered command.

There was no freedom, and no means to resist.

Harry bit his lip hard enough to bleed to stop himself sobbing from the frustration.

He didn’t want the Devil to look at him like this; he didn’t want to be splayed open like some sacrifice right at the altar of his church. His bare skin was violating the sanctity of this altar— _ he  _ was about to be violated along with the sanctity of this altar.

This was the grandest humiliation. It was sacrilegious. It was complete and utter blasphemy.

Harry wanted to weep, but he did not let himself. He refused to give Voldemort the satisfaction.

“You’re hard.”

Harry flinched, cutting his gaze away from Voldemort’s amused eyes to stare out to the entrance at the opposite end of the church. Harry longed for someone to come in; for one of the clergymen to catch sight of the Devil trying to defile one of their own.

But Harry knew that no one was coming. Voldemort would not have come at all had he had not been sure of their privacy.

“Masochism...humiliation...your sins are many, Father,” Voldemort stated idly, one of his fingers poking at Harry’s hard prick, tracing underneath the vein as Harry tried to stifle his pleased moan from the contact.

Harry did not know why just the merest touch did this to him...why the curiosity in such a monstrous face did not dim his desire, why it did not melt away the lust that churned relentlessly each time a sharp finger nail poked at his cock.

_ Please Lord, forgive me. I have failed you… _

And then the hand pulled away, the digit sliding up until it caught the edges of what remained of his habit. Harry closed his eyes when Voldemort chuckled and then single finger slipped beneath the cloth covering his quivering chest.

“I will leave none of you hidden, Father. There will be nowhere for you to hide; all of you will be bared before me…” Voldemort said, before his hand latched onto the fabric and he tore the material cleanly down the middle. The sleeves were the only thing left in place, but Voldemort did not glide his arms to cut through those.

It didn’t matter. All of Harry was not exposed so what difference did it make?

Harry’s nipples hardened underneath the cool air, his eyes shooting open to throw the man a dirty look when a clawed finger poked into his belly button, the finger penetrating deep into flesh as it traveled up and along his exposed chest.

Harry couldn’t look away, both afraid of what was to come and excited. The anticipation coiling within his belly driving him wild as Voldemort circled around his right nipple, but never quite nudged at the nub.

_ Please let this end quickly...My dignity cannot be any more ruined. _

Harry gasped when Voldemort ran his thumb over a hardened peak, the gesture enough to shoot a spark of electricity straight down Harry’s spine.

Harry tried not to moan, teeth sinking onto his bottom lip to deprive the monster of the satisfaction.

If Harry could not stop this, then Harry would simply deny Voldemort his reactions. He’d hold it all in, he’d pray for God, and hope that his pleas would be heard. That his calls would make this suffering quick.

Voldemort’s chuckled then, and Harry shot his gaze away from where the man was playing with his nipple to the man’s eyes; gasping when Voldemort was staring interestedly at his face.

Harry tried not to flush, baring his teeth at him defiantly.

“You would attempt to hide your voice from me, Father?” Voldemort asked, his eyes shining brilliantly as he took Harry’s nipple between his finger and squeezed. 

Harry stopped himself from moving, stifling all thought of arching his back into the man’s grip.

There was a challenge in Harry’s eyes, his anger flaring out at being controlled like some mindless puppet, at being desecrated on top of all things he considered holy.

Harry knew little about pleasure, inexperienced as he was. But he would not take this, even if he there was no hope for him to win this battle at all.

Harry spat in response, and Voldemort’s lips broke out into a malicious grin; his finger thankfully pulling away from Harry’s nipple. The danger in that touch, for the moment, no longer at issue.

“Very well,” Voldemort said before removing his hand entirely and slipping into his pocket in search of something.

Harry heard the familiar clacking from earlier, and he tensed when Voldemort removed the rosary Harry had dropped when he’d tried to flee from Voldemort earlier. The beads gleamed brightly beneath the lit candles and the white moonlight; the purple almost black as Voldemort lifted them so that Voldemort could press a chaste kiss against them.

There was a small spike of anger in Harry at the perversion—that Voldemort, the devil incarnate, would press a chaste kiss to the item that embodied the Catholic Church’s veneration of the Blessed Virgin Mary. 

It was absolutely obscene.

But Harry could not look away. He watched, entranced as Voldemort took the beads into his mouth, a long, pink tongue poking out and laving at the beads until they gleamed brightly with his saliva. 

Harry’s dread increased when Voldemort moistened all the beads after moments of sucking and licking at them, the rosary’s miniature cross dangling between Voldemort’s hands. Harry stared helplessly at it, breath coming in sharply when Voldemort’s gaze flickered to Harry’s eyes.

“Are you nervous? Anxious?” Voldemort asked, and it took Harry several moments to gather his wits to respond.

“You’re absolutely mad. Anyone in their right mind would be frightened out of their wits!” Harry hissed before the anger melted into a gasp when Voldemort pressed a moistened bead against his puckered hole.

Harry’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him.

_ He wouldn’t... _

“N-no, you monster! Don’t!” Harry cried, but Voldemort ignored his protests.

He shoved a bead inside Harry’s arse, and Harry felt like he was going to melt. The sensation drawing a soft gasp from his lips when Voldemort did not stop at one, his cold hand pushing another, and another before Harry could even think to retaliate, his back bowing from the sensation. 

“What’s wrong, Father? I thought you took comfort from clutching tightly around your rosary? Did the beads not help you think...clearly?” Voldemort teased, as he forced another bead— _ Hail Mary _ —inside Harry’s clenching insides, the sensation driving him mad.

_ Lord, please forgive me for the sins I will commit! I never wished to deface you… _

“G-go to hell,” Harry cursed as a much larger bead— _ the Lord’s Praye _ r—was slipped inside, the pain making his toes curl when as Voldemort shoved another, giving Harry no time of respite.

Harry could hardly keep up, his soft moans and protests bleeding into one another despite his vow to stop himself from reacting at all.

He knew the rosary intimately. He knew each prayer and each mystery, had thumbed the spaces before the larger beads and profoundly whispered Glory Be in hopes that the Lord would comprehend the depth of his devotion.

He knew, from the bottom of his being, that the the rosary was  _ never  _ meant for _ this _ .

... _ I am not fit to be a clergyman, I cannot even keep true to my word _ —

There was no time for disgust as Voldemort pushed another in, and the bead brushed against something inside that made sparks dance over Harry’s skin.

Harry jolted, a soft cry leaving his lips when Voldemort pushed in another, and the beads pressed and teased at his insides. The balls heating up inside and vibrating in a manner that Harry was certain was impossible.

Saliva pooled down his chin from how wide his mouth was, unable to close it when Voldemort’s red eyes were staring into his own, the vivid red drawing him even as Voldemort stuffed the last ball into his arse. 

Harry did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed at the fact.

“Don’t look so disappointed, I am  _ far  _ from done with you,” Voldemort said, amusement thick in his tone as he twirled one hand around his puckered entrance, his fingers teasing at the string where the miniature cross sat, while his other hand dragged long nails against his balls.

Harry tried to stop himself from reacting, biting his lip so hard that it bled to stifle his moans, but the way his body squirmed betrayed him. His eyes screwed shut when Voldemort tutted at him, a smirk on his pale lips.

“Are you even  _ trying _ ?”

“S-shut it, see if you could—”

Harry cried out when Voldemort wrapped his hand around Harry’s leaking prick and stroked it, the friction nearly making him climax right then and there.

“Go on, I am listening,” Voldemort murmured, but just as Harry made to say something, the words were again robbed from his mouth when Voldemort’s hand began to move, his thumb teasing at the head of his prick.

_ Monster! _

Harry’s mind shouted before pleasure drowned out his defiance, his body melting at feeling of Voldemort’s finger poking at his cockhole with each stroke; his insides clenching tightly around the beads buried deep inside him that vibrated lowly inside him.

There was a pressure building within his gut; one that Harry was both desperate and resistant in reaching. He knew what this meant; had felt the same stirring in his navel whenever the pleasure had been too much, his mind melting into the bliss that silenced all rational thought.

But everything about this was vastly different from the dreams.

Here and now, Harry still had some semblance of coherency. The locket still despite the way it held him down and controlled him. It did not soak his insides with delicious heat nor did it override his mind, or urged him to take his flesh between his hands as it had when Harry was sitting in the confession’s box. No, the locket was blissfully silent, even though the magic pulsing in the cold metal kept him perfectly compliant.

Harry cried out when Voldemort sped up suddenly, seemingly sensing that Harry was no longer focused on the feeling of the man’s hand around his prick, but mulling over the cold trinket sitting over his ribs.

The finger poked into his cokchole, the nail digging in to wrench a pained moan from Harry’s tongue as the touches became more brutal. The friction was sweet agony, and Harry’s mouth fell open to whine when Voldemort did not relent.

Harry’s cock swelled, the pain and pleasure driving him wild as his eyes rolled to the back of his head from the sensation. He couldn’t resist when Voldemort wove the seemingly opposite sensations together; the dichotomy nearly tearing him in two.

“ _ Oh, I-I _ ,” Harry could hardly speak, the sight of Voldemort’s eyes drinking him up, watching how Harry’s cock was twisted and teased, how his puckered entrance clenched and unclenched from the flurry of sensations making heat color his cheeks.

Harry was splitting at the seams, and the man’s intense eyes only made him burn brighter.

The humiliation in the back of his head making his cock jolt with ecstasy.

“Yes, Father?” Voldemort mused. 

Harry screamed when Voldemort suddenly pulled the beads from inside him; the combination of his insides being twisted by the balls and Voldemort’s tight grip on his bollocks pushing him over.

Harry could taste his release at the back of his tongue. His head shot back, but his glasses sat miraculously on his face and his scream turned into a desperate whine. Voldemort’s grip on his cock had become brutally tight just as he was about to tip over, his hand a vice that prevented Harry from drowning in bliss and splattering over his own stomach and possibly Voldemort’s face.

Harry felt like he might cry, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes when his cock twitched and pulsed, but there was no release. 

_ No, no, no, he can’t… _

Harry wanted to beg for the Devil to continue; to put him out of his misery, but he held his tongue. He wouldn’t beg. This was no dream. There was so much more than his pride and his virtue at stake.

“Something the matter, Father? You’re looking rather flushed...could it be that you wanted release?” Voldemort said knowingly, his red eyes trapping Harry’s moist, emerald gaze as he spoke. His eyes were wide in faux innocent, and Harry wanted nothing more than to punch the devil in the face.

Harry had never hated anyone in his life as much as he hated this monster. Lips trembling, Harry glared intensely at Voldemort, his fingers clenching so tightly on his own knees that Harry was sure he was going to bruise.

But Harry was just so  _ angry.  _ His cock throbbed at being deprived of its release, Voldemort’s grip bruisingly tight even after the risk of climax was long since gone.

“I hate you,” Harry whispered, staring intently at Voldemort’s eyes as he said it. 

And then Harry saw Voldemort’s breath catch, eyes eyes drinking in Harry’s face as if he simply could not get enough.

“Hate me all you like, but  _ this _ ...” Voldemort hissed, suddenly squeezing Harry’s cock so tightly that white spots dancing across Harry’s vision from the pain…”belongs to  _ me _ .”

Harry choked when Voldemort finally released his cock and pressed a hard bulge against his arse, the heat searing Harry straight to the bone.

“I'm going to fuck you, Harry Potter…” Voldemort groaned, a hand lowering to release his much larger cock from within the dark fabric, its blunt tip sliding easily between Harry’s trembling cheeks. 

_ Please God, I don’t think I can... _

Voldemort reached into his pocket to produce a clear bottle—anointing oil—the sound of it uncapping and its familiar shape enough to make Harry’s heart beat rapidly in his chest. 

He didn’t have to be a genius to know what this meant, to know what the man planned to do. To know that Voldemort planned to deface another holy—

“I’m going to destroy you…” Voldemort promised.

Harry felt both fear and desire swirl within his belly, the promise of bliss enough to nip at the edges of his fear. 

_ Lord have mercy on my soul, do not forsake me… _ Harry thought as Voldemort drenched his hands in the viscous fluid and smeared anointing oil all over his cock, the wet, sloppy sound too loud—too  _ carnal _ —to Harry's ears. 

“After tonight, no one will ever again question my power…” Voldemort breathed. 

Harry shook when the blunt tip pressed against him, its width making his own cock twitch and swell at the promise of pleasure and pain...his mind silencing completely as his arms and legs began to shake with anticipation.

_ You’re a masochist, Harry...how could you allow yourself to crave such vile, filthy things? _

The voice was acidic, the noxious words making his heart tear at the seams because it was true. There was no mistaking the fact that he was filth. He did not deserve to be a soldier of God, to be the guiding hand for those seeking solace and respite when Harry was welcoming depravity with open arms.

When Harry had debased everything he held sacred in the house of God. 

“After tonight if they speak of you, they'll only speak of how you begged for release…” Voldemort murmured, a hand twining around Harry’s cock and stroking the appendage softly. 

Harry’s toes curled from the sensation, his eyes watering when Voldemort began to push in. 

Sharp, indescribable pain shot up Harry’s spine; his mouth falling open to beg this monster to stop, to plead for him to not go through with this. But Harry’s mouth remained shut, the only indication of his agony the pained moans and groans when Voldemort forced his cock slowly inside; the only semblance of mercy the man was capable of. The pain did not end, even after the man’s massive girth stopped pressing in. No, the pain burned his insides, danced along his spine like knives cutting at flesh and bone. 

“Please, j-just,” Harry broke, eyes watering with pain as Voldemort suddenly jerked and buried what remained inside, tearing a gut-wrenching scream from Harry’s throat. 

It was liquid fire. It was acid swimming through his veins and melting his skin from bone. It was pure agony, but the pain did not soften him, the friction of Voldemort’s shafts within his insides made his spine arch with a jolt of delicious bliss. 

_ I am sick and I… _

Voldemort was still, and Harry’s breaths leveled out the longer the man remained sat inside him without moving. It was a respite, a mercy that the Devil never allowed another. Not in the entire time Harry had read about the devil in his studies.

It was a bizarre act of kindness, and Harry felt something clench within his belly. His eyes took in the way Voldemort’s eyes lit up with excitement, and his lips pressed thinly from burying his cock deeply inside.

Harry marveled at the seemingly human expression in the man’s face. A face that had terrified him, but now...only fascinated him the longer Voldemort’s eyes switched between a flurry of different emotions.

Harry reeled at its rapidity, unable to distinguish them despite how hard he was staring. 

And then Voldemort pulled back and thrust back in, and Harry screamed, unable to stop the sound from leaving his throat when the man did not stop. He set a brutal pace that made the altar beneath them vibrate, the wooden trembling with the ferocity of Voldemort’s movements.

“O-oh  _ Gods _ ,” Harry moaned when Voldemort seized onto his trembling ankle, and yanked Harry closer until his shin was quivering by the man’s head, before twisting his hips and slamming into his prostate head on.

Harry saw white, his mouth falling open as a full-body shudder racked through him. His toes curled from within his shoes and his fingers clenched tightly against the backs of his knees, the locket still keeping him trapped firmly in place. The magic failed to sense how little Harry cared about escaping in that precise moment, of how consumed he was by thrum of pleasure twisting along his stomach.

Harry did not want to run, not when Voldemort’s cock felt so good inside.

“P-please, more,” Harry whimpered, arching into Voldemort’s hand when it gripped Harry’s leaking prick tightly and began to stroke at the skin, his nails cutting into his head with no remorse.

Harry delighted in the pain, his mouth falling open to moan as Voldemort fucked into him, uncaring of the fact that the cross was less than a meter behind his head. That Jesus Christ was above their heads and witnessing Harry’s undoing.

“And how  _ I _ being a merciful Lord... obliged,” Voldemort groaned, and Harry felt the magic holding him in place break, his arms shooting out to bring the man closer. 

Harry touched at cold, unyielding flesh, delighting at the way his spine twinged when Voldemort let Harry’s splayed legs fall and coil around Voldemort’s hips to bury Voldemort deeper inside.

_ More. _

Harry felt his vision swim, his mouth falling open to release a cry when Voldemort leaned down to press his cold lips against Harry’s, his teeth catching onto Harry’s bottom lip before biting  down hard on the bruised skin.

Harry tasted blood on his tongue, and he moaned into the kiss, arching and writhing beneath Voldemort’s body as pained cries and pleasured moans were ripped one after the other.

Harry’s fingers dug into Voldemort’s shoulders to bring their mouths closer.

_ Chocolate and blood… _

The taste was intoxicating and Harry felt dizzy with his desire, his reservations, his  _ shame,  _  forgotten and abandoned.

_ God has forsaken me… _

Harry arched when Voldemort’s thrusting became more brutal, his grip on his cock enough to bruise the delicate skin. And Harry couldn’t get enough of it. He wanted this pain, it was more than he deserved. 

He  _ needed  _ this pain.

“P-please, hurt me more…” Harry begged, and Voldemort growled into his lips before he pulled away to press a soft kiss on his neck, his forked tongue lapping at his sweat skinned skin as if savoring the taste of Harry’s quivering skin.

_ Hurt me more, tear me apart... _

Harry could feel his climax building beneath his navel, could taste ecstasy at the back of his throat after Voldemort had stolen his first kiss and virginity. He was lost, and Harry did not have it in himself to care.

_ God has forsaken me, only the Devil could ever want me… _

And then sharp teeth buried themselves into Harry’s neck, the pain enough to push Harry over the edge.

Harry came, his mouth wide open in a silent scream as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. His tongue lolled from his mouth and he ignored the way his saliva dribbled down his chin, the mess the least of his worries when Voldemort kept pounding deeply inside and milking him of all pleasure inside.

Harry was filthy and he couldn’t find it himself to care. Not when his spine sang with gratification.

So let him be covered in saliva. Let him be drenched with his sweat and tears. It only made sense that he look as he was truly on the inside. Dirty, sullied and foul.

Harry’s juices were splattered over his stomach, ropes of cum coating Voldemort’s stomach as Harry sank further into the delicious anguish of Voldemort’s teeth cutting into his neck, of sharp nails cutting and twisting his cock, and of a thick cock ramming into his prostate before the creature found his climax too.

Voldemort hissed.

“ _ Mine… _ ”  

Harry felt warmth coat his insides, the sensation similar to how the locket had felt when it had possessed his limbs. Harry leaned closer into the man then, uncaring of the coldness in his skin as Voldemort removed his face from Harry’s neck and righted himself, his crimson eyes catching onto Harry’s half-lidded green. His cock still  buried deep inside.

The red drowned Harry’s mind, pulled and stretched him as deliciously as the man’s prick did when he’d been fucking into him.

“You poor child…” Voldemort said, his lips twisting into a sardonic grin when Harry did not fight against him, his body slackening, his body submitting to the sweet black of euphoria and contentedness. 

Harry felt something hot trickle down his cheeks, realizing only after seconds of trembling within the man’s arms, that they were tears.

“Forsaken and discarded like a broken toy…” Voldemort crooned. He leaned forward, lapping up his tears with one slow lick. “I will  _ never _ abandon you... _ never  _ forsake you…”

Harry’s shook, a pressure building in his chest unlike the ecstasy that had consumed him earlier.

“Come into my arms, Harry, I can promise you the  _ world _ .”

Harry’s shuddered, identifying the strange pressure as despair, the ugly emotion eating at him like acid. The emotion more noxious and debilitating than the sorrow that had consumed him when his parents were ripped away from him when he was only a child.

_ God has forsaken you... _

Harry released a sob, God’s dismissal cutting him to the bone, the stab more painful than the act of Voldemort’s body slipping inside and twisting him until he hardly recognized himself. 

The book of Isaiah proclaimed that God was always with him, that He was good, will both strengthen and help you. The book of James said to resist the devil and he will flee from you. The book of Exodus said that the Lord will fight for you; you only need to be still.

Harry had dedicated his life to God, placed all his trust in Him and loved Him more than anyone else in his life. 

Why had God ignored his prayers?

Harry did not feel any more different then when he had been pure, chaste and untouched. His skin unmarred and pristine, just as he had always been.

But the tears did not stop, his heart felt as if it had been torn to pieces.

And then Voldemort gathered him into his arms in a gentle embrace, cradling him like a cherished child, like how the Blessed Mary had once cradled the Son of God, Jesus Christ. His voice was soft as he praised and comforted Harry, allowing him this moment to weep. Harry wanted to scream his lungs out, but he was silent as his sobs wracked through him, unsure of the precise reason for the agony making his lungs tight.

Did he cry for his inability to overcome temptation or did he cry for God for turning his back on him when he needed him most? Harry didn’t know, and he clutched desperately onto the monster holding him, unsure of what to do.

_ God has forsaken you… _

Harry sobbed, and Voldemort lifted him from atop the altar and moved away the image of Christ on the cross.

_ “Shh, it's alright, Harry. From this day forth, you put your faith in me.” _

The words were deafening. 


End file.
